


Little Death

by Rana Eros (ranalore)



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Challenge: clothed smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-27
Updated: 2004-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranalore/pseuds/Rana%20Eros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisoka and an admirer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> So a discussion arose in Brigdh's LJ about Tsusoka, in which I opined that what the fandom needed was more frottage, as does every fandom. Someone else mentioned still-clothed!smutfic, and many images were offered up of rumpled shirts and loosened ties and askew glasses and undone trousers. These are all lovely images, but I felt compelled to point out many of them don't apply to Hisoka. I ended up writing comment smut. Here is the slightly cleaned-up version.

His back was pressed up against the wall, his shirt rucked up to the bottom of his ribcage and only the top button of his jeans undone. It allowed just enough room for a hand to slip inside, pressed too close to tease by confining denim, long fingers curling around his cock and flexing, just slightly, just enough to suck all the air out of the room and make lightning shoot up Hisoka's spine. He arched back, gasping, and there was laughter from the mouth tasting his skin above the collar of his shirt.

"You like that?" The voice was like the fingers, warm and knowing, and he didn't answer, because he knew it wasn't really expected. All that was expected was this, his permission and his pleasure, and it was as unlike Muraki as possible, because Muraki only wanted his pleasure as a form of surrender and Muraki would never have stood in this darkened room still dressed and just touching him.

"You're thinking too much," the voice chided him lightly, and then the fingers curled, brushing against his balls, and he tightened his grip on well-defined arms and just felt it. His pleasure, theirs, the desire that had nothing to do with red moons or curses and everything to do with this, with them, with darkened rooms and warm fingers and the way he tasted, salt-sweet, the way he felt, hot and silken; the way he moved into the hand around him and his head fell back and he felt it, like an entire storm streaking through his nervous system, touching him every place the curse had and feeling nothing like a curse and everything like that first moment when death freed him.

Being kissed was like breathing anew, except the air of Meifu always tasted faintly of sakura. The mouth on his tasted of many things, but sakura was not one of them. And so he didn't mind at all when the kiss lingered.


End file.
